


earthicano

by verity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Body Worship, Braid Keith, Canon Trauma, Coffee Shops, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Out, Space Stations, and they were ROOMMATES, but not AU exactly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17497865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: Before Kerberos, Shiro would never have guessed how wild Alteans would be about coffee.  Then again, most of them had only ever had instant Nescafe before Black Lion. There’s not even a Dunkin up here to challenge them. Yet.Keith turns up at 1130 and bypasses the line altogether. “Earthicano?”“Please stop calling it that,” Shiro says.





	earthicano

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Ashe, concernedlily, pickleweasel, and spooky_foot for cheerleading and to morethanslightly for the beta!
> 
> this fic uses 20-varga time, where 20 vargas = 28 earth-hours.

“Late again,” Shiro says, holding the door open for Matt to wheel in his cart.

Officially, Black Lion doesn’t open until 0700 hours, but Matt is here to drop off their first shipment of coffee for this movement. Holt Roasters is the best this side of the wormhole. “I get held up in customs every time, you know that,” Matt says. “Sign here, asshole.”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Sure you do.” He signs the datapad Matt holds out for him. “Staying stationside for long?”

Matt shakes his head. “Just this morning. I have a run home for green later. Drinks next time?”

The only drinks Shiro has the budget for are a couple bottles of Hunk’s homebrew, consumed in the classy venue of his cramped apartment, but Matt knows that well enough. “You’re on,” he says.

Then he lugs 70 kilos of coffee downstairs. He can’t believe that used to think civilian life would be less work.

* * *

Kerberos Station was just a twinkle in Shiro’s eye when he was growing up. He all knew about it, of course, and the stately Alteans who’d built it; Alfor had journeyed to Earth to announce the presence of additional intelligent life in the galaxy when Shiro was in diapers. When he was chosen to pilot the Kerberos mission, the higher-ups were clear on the details—this was to be an in-and-out, a test of Garrison technology and flight skill, and, yes, they would need to bring their passports.

Shiro’s still has EARTH stamped in gilded letters on the cover. He won’t need to renew for another five years.

* * *

Five doboshes after Matt’s departure, the door swings open. “Late again,” Shiro calls out without looking up. He’s dialing in the decaf espresso, which is always a nightmare.

“No, I’m not.” Romelle sticks her tongue out at him as she locks up behind herself. “You scheduled me for 0600. You did that. Check your own calendar.”

Shiro says, “It’s 0602,” but his heart isn’t in it.

Most vargas find Shiro and Romelle handling the opening shift out front and Tavo in the kitchen. Romelle has a truly alien ability to be pleasant to customers first thing in the morning and Tavo can handle the lunch rush; Shiro likes his afternoons free. Once he hands over the bar to Shay or Bryn at 1200, he has plenty of time to enjoy the station’s simulated sunshine and whatever simple sandwich is on the staff menu for the day. 

That’s a thought that gets him through dialing in the decaf, the house espresso, and the Olkarion single-origin that somehow has the same potato-taste problem as Rwandan coffee back home. Shiro even manages to get the morning drop of cold-brew strained before they open, a minor miracle.

“Oh, you’re still here,” he says when he looks up to see Lance getting the pastry counter shield dirty at 0650 while Romelle finishes setting out the scones, still warm from the bakery’s ovens. “You’d better wipe the glass down before you leave.”

“Oops,” Lance says, not sounding very apologetic. “Yeah, I’ll get that before I go.”

“How about now?”

Lance sighs. “See you later, Ro. Where’s the cleaner again?”

The bakery is halfway around the station, so they have Lance running deliveries between Black and Yellow all day long. In the morning, the cafe gets premade food for the deli case, quiche, bread, and sweets; in the afternoon, there’s soups, premade bowls, and other items for the evening shift. Of course, that’s not the only ground he has to cover—Yellow Lion has wholesale customers all over the station in addition to The Restaurant.

Shiro doesn’t want to think about The Restaurant.

* * *

One of the great things about the morning rush is that most of the customers are regulars and know what they’re doing. Romelle holds down the floor until Rax comes in at 0900 and Shiro’s brain cheerfully whites out in a sea of drink tickets. Is there any better coping mechanism for the fallout from being abducted by aliens, forced to fight in an arena for sport, and having your dominant arm replaced by a prosthetic of nebulous origin? If there is, Shiro doesn’t know it.

Around 0930, the first rush slows down, so they have half an hour to wipe the lobby down and try to catch up on dishes before the stragglers start coming in. The cargo ship crews barely know what time it is on station after vargas in their own vessels; the station employees on second shift are yawning, getting ready for their first dose of caffeine. Before Kerberos, Shiro would never have guessed how wild Alteans would be about coffee. Then again, most of them had only ever had instant Nescafe before Black Lion. There’s not even a Dunkin up here to challenge them. Yet.

Keith turns up at 1130 and bypasses the line altogether. “Earthicano?”

“Please stop calling it that,” Shiro says. He pulls the second portafilter and basket out of their mid-day bath in cleaning solution and rinses them out in the sink before he pops them together. “You have flour on your nose.”

Keith rubs at his nose; it’s futile. He has a matching ring around the neck of his black t-shirt. “Whatever. Coffee me.”

Shiro makes the Americano with the Olkarion, which blessedly comes out of the hopper without so much as a whiff of potato. Keith takes his cup and disappears into the gathering lunch crowd. He usually sits at the counter that runs along the observation window by the front door and waits for Shiro to wrap up his shift. 

Sometimes, Shiro forgets the window is there until he resets the lobby before open. He never thought he’d get used to the stars. But here they are.

“Flat pink,” Romelle says. “Extra syrup, please.”

Shiro loads up a shot in his clean portafilter to reseason it, then takes the ticket. “Hey, Slav,” he calls over the counter. “How’s your day going?”

“Well, now it’s _amazing_ ,” Slav says, resting one of his many hands on Shiro’s just-cleaned handoff shelf.

Thankfully, Shay rolls up right on time, giving Shiro 15 doboshes for hand-off. “Don’t be afraid to say no, even if it’s Lotor himself. You got that?”

“He keeps telling me it’s a joint galactic peace effort and he’s asking for so little,” she says.

It is Shiro’s not-so-private opinion that The Restaurant is not a joint galactic peace effort. “Two cups of espresso is not that little.”

Shay pulls a face.

“Pull a couple of shots and do the rest with drip coffee,” Shiro says. “The house espresso, because I don’t want you to have to explain—”

“Potato taste?” Shay says.

“Anything,” Shiro says. “But that, too.”

Perhaps it’s not very nice that Shiro never schedules himself for the evening bar shift, but he’s had enough to do with the Galra Empire for the rest of his life. Zarkon is dead and deposed and Lotor freshly sworn to an alliance, but that doesn’t mean Shiro wants to deal with Lotor across the street, courting his boss, the crown princess of New Altea.

“Stay strong,” Shiro says, clapping Shay on the shoulder.

* * *

When Ulaz came to their rescue, Keith and Shiro had been Champions for nearly a year. Long enough. They found the Holts waiting for them at Kerberos Station in the closest Blade stronghold to Earth, as well as a ragtag crew of—

“Stowaways,” Princess Allura said sternly.

One of the kids rolled his eyes. “ _Rescuers_.” He looked familiar—Shiro recognized him from the Garrison. Lance.

King Alfor shimmered in the corner. He rarely left New Altea, but his hologram could travel anywhere. “All of you have knowledge of the Galra now. Shiro bears their technology. While those who negotiated our alliance are aware, the people of Earth are not apprised of the Empire’s threat. We are concerned about the implications of your return.”

“What does that mean?” Keith said. Under the bright lights of the station’s day, he looked thin and pale, the wound Shiro had been forced to deal still livid pink on his cheek.

Princess Allura looked at her father for a long moment. “The original mission to Kerberos was intended to be purely diplomatic,” she said, turning her gaze back on them. “I see no reason not to treat your presence here as such. We’ll find something for you to do.”

* * *

Earth’s primary import from New Altea is their technology. Before he left for Kerberos Station, Shiro got briefed on Earth’s exports, but the most popular items on the actual station were low down on the list. He wasn’t prepared for aliens to be so into sandwiches, ring pops, or Velveeta. 

Earth cuisine is apparently _very_ exotic.

Keith has already finished his lunch—or dinner, whatever, he works bakers’ hours—but he sits with Shiro while Shiro eats his. The bench by the hydroponic garden is always a nice place to sit after work; they have a showy display of that Altean fruit out front that looks like a tomato but tastes unsettling like a mushroom. 

“Hunk is having us make babka next movement,” Keith says. “He managed to stream some kind of babka class and now he’s obsessed. It’s a shaped yeast bread _and_ it’s got chocolate.”

Shiro’s sandwich drops a slice of bacon-y protein out of the end. “Oh no.”

“It’s going to be a _nightmare_ ,” Keith says.

Real chocolate is in scarce supply even on Earth these days; Hunk has yet to find a truly suitable replacement. When the bakery attempts something with chocolate, it’s even odds as to whether a human will find it edible. Fortunately, most of the inhabitants of Kerberos Station have no idea what they’re missing.

Shiro knows what he’s missing. He remembers the real thing, and coffee and ring pops can’t whet his desire for it. The odds that he’ll see Earth again seem a lot worse than finding an acceptable substitute for chocolate.

Keith puts his hand on Shiro’s arm, just above his bracelet—this one of Altean design. “Do you want to wrap that up?” he says, nodding toward Shiro’s sandwich. Oh, he sat that down a while ago. “You look tired.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says gratefully. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

_Home_ is a small suite of rooms right between the two Lions. The stationmaster, Coran, put the three Holts in a set of rooms adjacent to Lance and Hunk’s, possibly to provide some semblance of adult supervision, but Shiro and Keith are several housing segments away from them. Their segment is older, original to the station; Shiro has grown fond of it.

The suite they share could fit inside Shiro’s officers’ quarters at the Garrison. The living area features a thin slice of the galaxy framed in the window and has exactly enough room for a couch, a kitchenette, and a projection screen for Shiro to watch questionable Altean daytime TV. Down the narrow hallway, the shower and toilet are little more than cubbies. Opposite, the bedroom has two stacked bunks, the unoccupied space in the room only wide enough to give access to them. The beds themselves are deep and fitted with mattresses with telepathically adjustable firmness—or, for humans, with datapads freshly installed on the inner wall. 

If Shiro draws the bunk’s curtain, it separates him so thoroughly from the outside world that he feels like he’s in an incredibly comfortable coffin. He usually leaves it open.

At night, in the dark, the only thing that reassures him of where they are is the way Keith sleeps above him. During their imprisonment, he slept only lightly, alert to the very real threats that surrounded them. Now Keith sleeps like the dead. His little snores whistle down from the bunk, leavening the darkness of the room. Shiro can’t fall asleep without them.

* * *

“Are you really putting that on again,” Keith says as Shiro settles onto the couch and throws his feet up onto the low storage cabinet that serves as an improvised ottoman. It’s not like they have much to store. “That’s… that’s not even a real show.”

“This is cultural anthropology,” Shiro says as he selects what is approximately the Altean version of _Antiques Roadshow_ from the menu. “How else would we have learned about the historical preparation of food goo?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I could have done without that.”

“Oh, me too.”

They used to try to train together after work, but now that’s shifted to days off, rarely together. Wearing yourself out on a punching bag after lifting heavy bags of flour or trays of dishes or full mop buckets isn’t optimal when you have to wake up at 0330 or 0500 and do it all again the next day. On Kerberos Station, their leisure activities are limited, and sometimes Shiro just wants to watch some fucking TV.

Keith curls up beside him on the couch with his datapad and pretends he’s not watching for at least the first half hour. Then he says, “Is that a...”

“Collection of vintage speculums?” Shiro says.

The automated translation at the bottom says _Intimate Openers CIRCA 8800 NA WOW_. They look kind of like salad tongs with large shields that flare out to hold back the tentacles. Shiro’s learned surprising amount about anatomy from Altean _Antiques Roadshow_. 

After a moment, Keith says, “I think this is weirder than the time we found the porn channel.”

The room is dim except for the glowing screen and the small light under the hood of the kitchenette. Shiro flushes. “Maybe.”

On screen, the appraiser is inspecting the elaborately engraved handles of the… whatever they are. They seem hard to clean. “ _Fine work_ ,” he says. “ _I expect the set would bring at least 20000 NAS at auction._ ”

Shiro risks a glance at Keith, who is now watching raptly, datapad forgotten on his lap. His hair is halfway out of its braid and his face is still dirty from work. Shiro licks the pad of his thumb and reaches over to get the last smear of flour stuck to the bridge of Keith’s nose, which crinkles as Shiro drags his thumb over it. “I was fine,” Keith says, not sounding very bothered. 

“Sure you were,” Shiro says.

His Galran arm rests between them like a cursed chaperone. From this side, he can’t see Keith’s scar.

* * *

Sometimes Shiro dreams about the fight. If Keith does, it doesn’t disturb his sleep.

Shiro thought they were evenly matched after those long months as reigning Champions, even after the arm. Not his arm, yet his arm, moving at his command with more force than he could muster with his left. That had always been the case, though, with Shiro’s right side dominant. He got used to it as much as he could. The metal was too cold when it brushed against his skin, warm only at the joint. His touch less sensitive yet more precise. 

When they paired him off with Keith that last time, it burned with power, rays extending forward to form a sword. He was inside and outside his body. Keith still pushed him to a defeat. Took him to the floor, made him yield with his own blade held to Shiro’s throat. Keith was stronger. He said some things that Shiro can’t think about right now and all of the fight went out of Shiro, slumping into the ground, arm dimming. The crowd screamed for the victor. 

Keith, their champion.

* * *

The next morning, there’s no coffee delivery, so Shiro gets to sleep in to the luxurious hour of 0515. Keith is still sleeping in his bunk, snoring soft day-off snores, and Shiro lets himself linger a few drowsy minutes in bed before he gets up to pee and make his hair not do the thing it does after another night of restless sleep.

Romelle looks him up and down when she clocks in at 0601. “Rough night, huh?”

“That bad?” Shiro says.

“Your regulars might notice,” she says. “What did you do, stay up all night watching _Quintants of Our Lives_ again?”

Deca-phoebs of Shiro’s life, maybe. “Something like that.” One of the flexors in his left arm spasms and his medical bracelet jolts back; he rubs his hand against his apron.

Every shot he pulls from the Olkarion hopper tastes like potato. Shiro gives it up for a loss and moves on to dialing in the Holts’ espresso blend, which takes blessedly few adjustments. On Earth, he was a military officer who worked at chain coffee shop one summer break, and now this is his life. Funny how most days he doesn’t even miss the old one.

Today is not most days.

* * *

Princess Allura herself appears at 0700 on the dot with a baby-blue personal cup that says something in Altean that Shiro suspects might be _Live, Laugh, Love_. “Princess,” he says, digging up customer service poise from the abyss of nothingness inside. “Your usual?”

“May I try the Olkarion?” Allura says as she examines the espresso menu.

Shiro hesitates. “I wouldn’t, today.”

She slides her cup toward him. “The house is fine.”

Allura’s favorite drink is a quad-shot banda nut milk latte in whichever royal vessel she chooses to grace the bar. Last time, it was a travel mug that said _I’M THE BOSS_ in English. Shiro has many questions about Allura that he has chosen prudently never to ask, including but not limited to why she is operating a bakery, a cafe, and a fine dining restaurant on a station located at the fringes of Altean territory. He pulls two shots, steams the milk, and pours his first rosetta of the day on top. The central stroke is only a little wobbly.

“Here you go,” he says as he sets the cup on the handoff. “Can I get you anything else?” 

“Hmm.” Allura’s expression turns thoughtful. “That’s all for now, Shiro. Except—have you not joined us yet at Oriande?”

How fortunate that Shiro is possessed of such iron composure. “I haven’t been to The Restaurant, no.” He manages not to let the emphasis slip into his tone. 

“You should remedy that,” she says demurely.

Shiro pushes the pitcher down on the pitcher rinser. “Looking for help with the coffee program?” he says over the rattle of the spray.

Allura takes a sip of her coffee and smiles. “Maybe.”

* * *

The morning rush floods in. Shiro’s been doing this long enough that he can queue some of the drinks as soon as he sees a regular get in line. Hard to believe it’s been nearly a year of lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, cortados, and americanos trundling through his day in merry sequence. For a while, Shiro dreamed about it; those were nice dreams.

At 1100, Lance leans over Shiro’s bar and says, in a hushed whisper, “Holy shit, Shiro. I just asked Allura how old she was.”

Shiro glances around the counter area. It’s dead. “Did she tell you how rude you were?” 

“She’s _17_ ,” Lance hisses. “But I asked her how long she’d _been_ 17, and she was like, _oh_ and _I don’t know_ and _ten thousand of your Earth-years_ and _Alteans have a long adolescence_? I can’t cope with this. I can’t live like this, Shiro.”

“I guess she needed a long time to develop a psychic bond with all those mice,” Shiro says mildly.

Lance glares at Shiro.

Once upon a time, Shiro was considered the Galaxy Garrison’s second-finest pilot and the officer least likely to accidentally insult an alien potentiary. If only he knew how little the first would matter in the end. “Is this really the strangest thing you’ve learned about an Altean this week?”

“Obviously,” Lance says.

Shiro’s arm spasms. He looks at the line starting to form against the pastry counter and decides this is not a teaching moment.

* * *

Keith is working out in their segment’s gym, going hard on one of the training bots. Shiro sits on the floor and watches Keith as he eats his sandwich. No one is in here at 1300 to judge him and the whole room smells like steel-drum-aged sweat; Shiro’s chicken salad is hardly the olfactory offender.

“Better have brought one of those over for me.” Keith wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s traded the braid for a sloppy bun that’s starting to list to the side.

“Did you think I’d forget?” Shiro says, then, “Dinner at the Holts’ tonight, if you want to go.”

Keith frowns. “With everybody?”

“You’d survive,” Shiro says. “You always do.”

Dinner at the Holts’ happens every few movements—whenever Pidge and Matt are back on the station at the same time and Sam can swing a night off from being an actual diplomat, whatever that means here. Hunk is usually half-asleep after a hard day of feeding far more than the seven people who cram into Sam’s living area, so it’s reheated bakery leftovers or DiGiorno that Matt has bribed through customs. 

After this long away from home, half-defrosted and then flash-heated DiGiorno tastes like heaven. Shiro can almost understand the Altean obsession with Nescafe. Almost.

“Maybe if there’s pizza,” Keith says.

Shiro lets his head loll back against the wall, watching Keith stalk the training bot, each movement focused and graceful. Balletic. They never saw each other compete in the ring except for their very first fight and the very last. Keith’s leg swings high and lands a kick. Again. The bony nub on the side of his ankle peeks out through the tape. His foot must be bothering him. 

The bot advances, battered but relentless, and Keith’s attack doesn’t falter. He stands standfast.

* * *

“Come on, old man,” Keith says sometime later, nudging Shiro’s thigh with his foot. “You can’t sleep down here.”

Shiro yawns. “Sorry.” He takes the hand Keith offers to help him to his feet. It’s dry, but Keith is soaking wet, his oversized t-shirt sticking to his chest. Shiro’s shirt.

“You needed it,” Keith says.

They take the elevator upstairs, which gives Shiro a few moments to gain some composure. Keith is holding Shiro’s bag with Shiro’s crumpled sandwich wrapper jammed into the side pocket. His expression is hard to read.

“Did you hit the flight sim this morning?” Shiro says.

Keith nods. “Beat it again. The flight instructor coming in on the shuttle next movement is supposed to make some modifications.”

Shiro clears his throat. “You want to be out there again.”

Keith glances sharply at Shiro, then away. “Not without you.” 

The mission to Kerberos Station was supposed to take months. Even the Garrison’s best ship had nothing on the flight power of the slowest Altean barge and _Persephone_ had nothing but Earth technology under her hood. Certainly New Altea was in no hurry to encourage another contender for the territory to join them in Milky Way. 

Shiro had, of course, been to the moon; once, he’d crewed a mission the all the way to Mars. Keith had never been to Mars. Those well-worn flight paths would have been full of fresh allure to him, and this was something else entirely, rocketing through uncharted space and debris fields all the way out to the edge of the galaxy. When Keith took a shift in the pilot’s seat, his eyes lit with focus and wonder. He looked at the depths of space the way he looked at Shiro and no one else. Back then, Shiro tried not to think about it. 

“The Blade’s offer is still open, isn’t it?” he says now.

Cinnamon rolls and interplanetary treaties aside, there’s no real reason for Keith to stick around Kerberos Station. The mystery of his knife, which he retained only by King Alfor’s direct intervention, won’t be resolved unless he completes the Trials of Marmora. 

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. "We’re not talking about that again,” Keith says. “Where’s my sandwich?”

* * *

Shiro dozes on the couch, even though he always wakes up with a crick on his back when he does that. He’s vaguely aware of Keith eating a sandwich, nudging Shiro’s feet up the couch and then into his lap. so he can squeeze in at the end with his datapad. His wet hair drips on Shiro’s foot, just below his stimulator, and Shiro shivers. Keith places his warm hand on Shiro’s calf, which isn’t much better. 

“Shiro,” Keith says softly. “Are you awake?”

The heat of Keith’s body makes Shiro feel like he’s dreaming. “Sort of.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Shiro says.

“You used to love flying,” Keith says. “Don’t you want to be out there again?”

From anyone else, those words would cut like a knife. Shiro’s already felt Keith’s blade at his throat, so he knows the difference. “I can’t.”

“You miss it.”

“Of course,” Shiro says. “Of course, I do.” He sighs. “So much. I can’t—”

Keith pats Shiro’s leg. “I just wanted to know.” His tone is reassuring, patient.

Shiro shakes his head. “There’s something wrong in me now.” He lifts the fingers of his prosthetic. “You saw. You know what I can do with this. Could do.”

“I’d stop you,” Keith says stubbornly. “You know I would.”

“I can’t ask that of you.”

When Keith turns his body toward Shiro, his scar shines in the light from the stove. There is no one in the universe that Shiro trusts more. “You don’t have to. You never had to.”

Shiro sits up, drawing his legs toward him and out of Keith’s lap. Keith follows the movement and Shiro tucks his prosthetic in his lap. He’s made peace with the everyday—lifting boxes, steaming milk, washing his hair in the shower—but he doesn’t want to touch Keith with it again. Not after the blow he dealt and the fight that came before it. Getting Keith down onto his knees and then on his back in the dirt.

He can’t think about what Keith said to him. He can’t think about the ecstatic feeling of flight. He can’t think about his internal clock ticking down, however extended by the stimulators on his wrist and ankles. Altean technology is advanced, but how advanced? How much did the loss of his arm and its replacement alter his trajectory?

Keith reaches out and touches Shiro’s face, cupping his cheek. His thumb strokes the edge of Shiro’s scar. “I feel it, too. There has to be something wrong with me to do what we did.”

“Keith, no,” Shiro says, leaning forward. Into Keith’s touch. “They made us fight. The Galra.” The name of the Empire is ash in his mouth. “We survived.”

“I won,” Keith says. “Is that really the same?”

They cheered for Shiro, too—the same crowds of Galra that shouted Keith’s name at the end of their match, the one Keith refused to take to the death. The ones who called Keith the Champion. 

Keith sighs. “What my knife did… I still don’t know what that means.”

“It’s over now, though,” Shiro says, even though it’s really, really not. “Keith. We’re okay.”

“Are we?” Keith says.

Well, they’re diplomatic prisoners on a remote space station working in food service. Shiro greatly prefers the cafe to fighting aliens in a ring for sport, but he can’t say it’s his first choice for how to spend his life. Not that he could name what his first choice would be.

Keith has that determined look on his face. His hair is loose and wavy, still damp, his shirt dark with water over the shoulders. He puts his hands on Shiro’s knees. “I won’t leave you behind, Shiro. Never. But I don’t think you want to be here anymore than I do.” He’s so brave. He’s always been brave—braver than Shiro.

“I love you,” Shiro blurts out. He doesn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t want to say it like this—Keith deserves to hear it from some better version of Shiro, a Shiro who doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe never existed. 

For a moment, Keith does nothing but stare at Shiro, lips parted like he’s forgotten what he’s going to say next. Then he’s pushing Shiro’s knees apart, crawling into Shiro’s lap. Shiro scrambles to make room for him, which leaves his prosthetic braced on the back of the couch and one leg on the floor. “Shiro,” Keith says. “Shiro.” He puts a hand in Shiro’s hair and slides his knee onto the sliver of cushion beside Shiro’s hip; Shiro grabs his waist before Keith loses his balance and concusses himself on their cabinet-ottoman. “Do you really—”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “I—”

Their mouths meet and Shiro stops thinking.

* * *

Eventually, they have to go to bed, because Keith still has to get up at 0330.

“We missed pizza,” Keith says mournfully before he squirts a food goo packet down his throat.

Shiro can’t help but smile at him. “You didn’t even want pizza.” He’s going for the food goo cubes. They remind him of Jello, sort of. The flavorless kind.

“Um.” Keith’s cheeks go pink. “I guess not.”

Shiro says, “You’re blushing.”

The tips of Keith’s ears flush. “I’m not,” he mumbles, crumpling the empty packet in his fist. 

They’re still wearing all their clothes and Shiro’s dick is very confused as to why, exactly, Shiro has done nothing to remedy this problem when Shiro could put his hands all over Keith right now. “You are.” Shiro can’t stop himself from touching Keith then—a hand on Keith’s shoulder, which makes Keith shiver. The movement under his hand goes through Shiro like an electric shock. 

“I’ve never done this stuff before.” Keith ducks his head. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” Shiro kisses Keith on the cheek and, quickly, on his chapped lips. “I do.”

Keith takes another shower while Shiro eats his food goo cubes and tries not to think about Keith jerking off in there. This is a very unexpected development. The part where _things_ happened, not the part where Shiro has thought about what Keith looks like when he jerks off. What he sounds like—fuck. Shiro shoves another cube in his mouth.

When Keith re-emerges, the bathroom fan whirring behind him, he carefully avoids eye contact with Shiro. “It’s yours if you want.”

“Sure,” Shiro says, mouth dry.

He gets under the spray and shoots off after a minute of unsteady strokes, too worked up in every possible way. The release of orgasm and the heat of the water make him dizzy, so Shiro sits down, his head pressed against his knees. He can’t escape it anymore. He wants and wants and _wants_.

* * *

“Hi,” Shiro says. “You’re in my bunk.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, because he’s asleep in Shiro’s bed in Shiro’s shirt, snoring his soft whistling snore. Shiro’s chest goes tight with affection. He slides in next to Keith, careful not to disturb him, and curls up behind Keith’s back, where he can nose against Keith’s hair. For once, he falls easily into a sound sleep.

At 0330, he is woken by Keith crawling over him. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Keith says when Shiro stirs. He presses a shy kiss to Shiro’s forehead and Shiro grabs him by the collar to pull him in for a longer one, sleepy and close-mouthed, until Keith draws away, rolling off the bed. “ _Sleep_ , Shiro.”

* * *

“No offense, but,” Romelle says when she clocks in at 0605, “You look pretty out of it.”

Shiro yawns. “I got a lot of sleep, actually.”

“Sure you did.” She squints at his neck. “Is that—”

“No,” Shiro says hastily. He waits until she’s grinding coffee for the drip brewer to yank up the collar of his shirt.

Today is a good day for the Olkarion, a bad day for decaf. At least there aren’t any regulars at Black Lion who routinely order decaf as espresso. Lance appears with the bakery delivery just as Shiro is filtering the cold-brewed house tea base. “Helloooo, ladies,” he says as he unveils several braided loaves of what must be babka.

Romelle’s brow furrows. “What’s a ‘lady’ again?”

Lance sputters.

“Gotcha,” Romelle says. “Wow, those look nice. Is that chocolate?”

“Probably not, but a man can hope,” Lance says.

The babka does look pretty good, although Shiro is not optimistic about the taste. He thinks for a moment about Keith’s hands shaping the dough and then concentrates very hard on his task. Willful compartmentalization has gotten him far in life. It won’t let him down today.

* * *

“Good morning, Shiro,” Lotor says, sidling up to the bar at 0915 with a smile that Shiro would like to smack off his face.

“Good morning,” Shiro says. “I’ve got a queue, but you can place an order at the register. Macchiato for Atrax!” He does not slam the macchiato down on the handoff because he is a professional.

Lotor’s smile only widens. “Are you sure you can’t make an exception for the Prince—”

“Aren’t you the Emperor now or something?” Shiro says as he lines up pitchers and pours the milk for his next three drinks. Four, and the next one’s banda nut. He grabs the designated nut milk pitcher from its seat by the rinser and swaps out the big pitcher of bagged milk for the carton of banda. Oh, there’s five. He’s only got so many pitchers to work with.

“An irrelevant distinction,” Lotor says, waving his hand casually. “I’d like a cappuccino, please. Bone dry.”

“You can order at the register,” Shiro says, stepping further down the bar to prep his next shot and maybe hide behind the grinders a little.

Lotor huffs. “I won’t,” he says. “And you’ll come to Oriande tonight, won’t you? And your little baker. I’m sure my princess would be pleased to see you two integrating so well into intergalactic society.”

Because Shiro has spent too much of his life fighting aliens with his bare hands in an arena, and also because he has a steadily growing line of drink tickets, he does not ask if Lotor is issuing a threat. “Fine,” he says, grabbing his last clean pitcher. “Our house style for cappuccinos is wet.”

* * *

The Restaurant is located directly across from Black Lion on the walkway that runs the circumference of Kerberos station. Shiro spent the first seven phoebs of his tenure at Black Lion hearing about how the The Restaurant would open any quintant now, and he’s spent every shift since the opening dealing with the fact that the staff insist that Black Lion should be grinding their coffee, sharing any “surplus” bread, and supplying the kitchen with unreasonable quantities of espresso for unknown and likely nefarious purposes. 

This would be annoying if The Restaurant were, say, a fine-dining establishment that served French food in traditionally minuscule portions. As it is, the Restaurant serves Altean-Galran “fusion cuisine” and is staffed by Galra who were until recently Lotor’s generals. Shiro is uncertain which is worse: the culinary pretentiousness, the war criminals, or just Lotor. 

“Earthicano,” Keith says when he sidles up to the bar at 1130. 

Shiro spends a moment too long looking at Keith’s mouth. “Yeah. I—uh. I’ll make you one.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “An Earthicano? Really?”

It’s true that Shiro has never let _Earthicano_ go unchallenged, but he is having some trouble with words right now. “Whatever you want.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and blushes. Shiro can barely drag his eyes away.

This is simple. He does this most quintants. Keith’s drink is like any other drink. Shiro carefully tares the scale, grinds the espresso into the portafilter as he sniffs the air for potato, and levels it off with a twist of his hand before he weighs it and scoops out a gram. He tamps the grinds down and locks the portafilter in the machine, starts the water going—on for two ticks, off for three, then back on. This batch of the Olkarion is a light roast with a weird tomato undertone that’s only mitigated by pre-infusion or an unfortunate potato surprise.

Shiro keeps his eye on the scale below the shot glass he’s pulling into until it’s time to cut the water and pour the shot into the waiting mug full of hot water. “Tell me what you think.” 

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Am I really going to taste anything in there?” 

“Try it,” Shiro says.

Cautiously, Keith takes a sip. A slow sunrise of delight spreads across his face. “This is really good, Shiro.”

It fucking better be; Shiro traded flavor for the surety that he’d have to chuck a quarter of the beans for potato defect. “Good,” he says, letting Keith’s smile warm him to distraction again. “Um. Do you want to go to The Restaurant with me later?”

To his credit, Keith does not spit out any of his drink onto Shiro’s clean handoff shelf. “ _Why?_ ” Then his face goes slack. “I mean—”

“Professional obligation,” Shiro says hastily. “I think it’s getting comped.”

“Oh, okay,” Keith says, eyes fixed on his drink. “Sure. Yeah. That’s fine.” 

Romelle clears her throat. “Shiro? You’ve got a couple drinks on bar.”

“On it,” Shiro calls over, even though he is so not.

* * *

Shiro has an hour to think about how they didn’t exactly have a defining-the-relationship conversation last night. What was there to define? In the light of day, this argument seems a little less reasonable. Despite the fact that Shiro has spent most of the past year feeling guilty for the time he tried to kill Keith, that Keith might think for an entire hour that Shiro wouldn’t take him out to dinner of his own accord seems much crueler. 

“You can give me the bar now, Shiro,” says Bryn, who’s closing today. “Romelle’s tipping out.”

“Sounds great, good plan,” Shiro says. 

He throws his apron in the laundry bin and goes to find Keith, still loyally waiting in the lobby, making Shiro feel like the worst ambiguous-whatever-role in the world. Keith is picking at his sandwich. His hair is in his eyes. “Hey,” he says, looking up as Shiro approaches, brushing back his bangs. “How was work?”

Shiro shrugs. “Fine. Want to go hang out by the tomatoes?” His palms are a little sweaty. 

“Not now,” Keith says. “Can we meet here at 1700 and walk over?”

This was not Shiro’s plan. “Sure?” he says, too tentatively.

Keith smiles at him again and reaches out to touch Shiro’s arm, trailing his hand over the prosthetic below the cap of Shiro’s sleeve. “I’ll see you there.”

* * *

Shiro is not used to being home without Keith puttering around, vacillating between quiet and insulting Shiro’s taste in TV. The silence is very loud, especially when Shiro has long vargas to kill thinking about how he’s going to make his intentions clear. He puts on _Antiques Roadshow_ and follows none of it.

This isn’t a new problem. Shiro’s always known how Keith felt—feels. At first, Shiro thought he was being kind by not acknowledging it; then it felt too heavy, as if speaking its name would call up everything Shiro wanted to never have a feeling about. He wasn’t wrong about that. 

In a perfect world, Shiro would leave tomorrow to take Keith to find the origin of his knife. He’d fly them as far as he could go, for as long as he could go. Before Kerberos, the ticking clock of his illness drove him past endurance to succeed, but the time Shiro spent facing death in the arena on a daily basis has changed his perspective. He’s got more time than many did and he might as well spend it the way he wants. That’s not marking time in a coffee shop, but it is with Keith.

What’s the name for that? How could one word ever describe what Keith is to him?

1600 comes sooner than Shiro expects. He rummages through the clean clothes in the storage under his bunk and comes up with nothing nicer than what he’s already wearing, but he changes anyway so he doesn’t smell like coffee. His hair could use a trim, but it’s too late for anything more than brushing it and hoping for the best.

* * *

Keith is wearing… not what Shiro was expecting. Maybe that’s just because Shiro’s gotten used to seeing him covering in flour, sweat, or dripping from a shower. “Did you go shopping?” Shiro says faintly.

When Keith shrugs, the fluid fabric of his shirt moves with him, loose in the New Altean style. His pants are very tight. “Romelle helped. I didn’t have anything clean.”

Given that Shiro has just rummaged through their collective wardrobe, this is a blatant lie. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” Keith moves to slide his hands into pants pockets that don’t exist, but he recovers smoothly. “Want to face the firing squad?”

“I’m more worried about the fried tentacle thing,” Shiro says frankly.

“I think they switched that to pan-seared.”

“Great,” Shiro says. “Pan-seared tentacles.”

The hostess at the door is an Altean Shiro recognizes, but only from her constant demands that the counter staff grind The Restaurant’s coffee (two pounds at a time, for French press). “Shiro!” she says, beaming. “And—”

“Keith,” Shiro says. “He’s a baker at Yellow Lion.”

“I love your baguettes,” the hostess says.

Keith is clearly holding back a comment about bread theft. “Thanks,” he manages.

The Restaurant is quiet enough tonight that there’s room for them at a small in the middle of the restaurant; they don’t have to sit at the bar, but they clearly don’t rate a booth. Shiro pulls out Keith’s chair, to Keith’s obvious confusion. “Just sit down,” he says quietly. “I’ll let you watch the bar.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Keith says.

Shiro shakes his head. “I trust you.”

Lotor’s generals may have been acquitted of any crimes when the peace accords were signed after Zarkon’s death, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t war criminals. Shiro knows their faces. If he were here with anyone else, he wouldn’t put his back to the bar with Axca behind it. The thought of her watching him makes his skin crawl. 

He doesn’t feel much more fondness for the person who approaches their table wearing a solid customer-facing smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Hello, I’m Ezor and I’ll be your server tonight. Still or sparkling?”

“Water?” Keith says.

Ezor’s smile takes on a sharp edge. “Yes. Would you like me to bring you our drink menu?”

Shiro’s had nunvill one time, which was one time too many. “Sparkling water is fine.”

The customers around them are a mix of Black Lion regulars and new faces, more than Shiro expected—still, much of the population of Kerberos Station is transient. Shiro thinks he’s being casual about casing their environment for threats until Keith’s ankle bumps against his. “Shiro, it’s okay. I’ve got this.”

Shiro tries for humor. “You think you can take someone in those pants?”

“Yes.” Keith smiles at Shiro and fiddles with his fork. He doesn’t look relaxed, exactly, but he’s not gritting his teeth like Shiro. “They have a gusset.”

“Ah,” Shiro says.

The menu pops up on the screen below the glass table top. It’s worse than Shiro expected, although some of that might be the English translations that clearly went through an AI and then onto the menu unreviewed. “Are all of these safe for humans to eat?” He taps on the kichoir aspic for more detail. 

“I guess we’ll find out,” Keith says.

“Hmm.” Shiro returns to the main menu without making a selection. “Is risni a vegetable?”

Ezor fills their glasses with sparkling water and leaves the carafe on the table for them. “Any questions?” Her head tendril perks up, alert, as she pulls out a small datapad from one of the pockets on her apron.

“Many,” Shiro says. “I think we’re ready to order, though.”

Keith nods. “We’ve made our choices.”

The menu on their table dims, fading into shimmering view of the galaxy. Ezor takes a moment to review their order on her datapad. “Excellent. You’ll enjoy the poached zeevod eggs—I’m told they’re much like the ones from home.”

Perhaps Shiro would be reassured if he hadn’t eaten zeevod eggs before. “Whose home is she talking about, exactly?” he whispers to Keith as Ezor moves on to the next table.

Keith’s eyes are on the pass-through, which neatly frames Narti chastising someone in the kitchen. When he catches Shiro watching him, the tension in his body eases, as if he’s snapping to a different kind of attention. “Not mine.”

“They do taste like century eggs. Sort of.” Shiro’s breath catches when he feels Keith’s ankle press to his again, then gently stroke his calf. Is Keith playing footsie in the The Restaurant? They’re obscured by the tables around them, but hardly concealed. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get you to chill out,” Keith says. “It’s not working very well. Do you want to switch places?”

“I don’t think that would help,” Shiro says.

Keith sighs. “You weren’t joking about professional obligation.”

Shiro nods toward the kitchen entrance from which Allura and Lotor have emerged to greet the dinner crowd. Allura looks celestially beautiful as always; Lotor looks evil in a celestially beautiful way. They’d make a nice pair if this were a movie, or figure skating, instead of Shiro’s real life. “Threats were made.”

“I just wanted you to enjoy yourself for once.” Keith’s mouth turns down. “I know it’s The Restaurant, but where else is there to go? McDonalds?”

“We are absolutely not going to McDonalds,” Shiro says.

Keith leans forward and says, very quietly, “I will steal a ship and also you if that’s what it takes.”

Lotor is nearing their table, his expression slick and genial. Shiro attempts to compose himself, but at the end of a workday, there’s not much composure left in him. He avoids acknowledging Lotor’s presence until Lotors glides behind Keith like an elfin ghoul. 

“Why, look, it’s our champions,” Lotor says. “How pleasant to have you both here tonight.” 

“Oh, it’s our pleasure,” says Keith, not turning around.

“Really,” Lotor says.

“Really,” Keith says.

In that moment, Shiro decides he’s going to do it. He’s going to leave, he’ll take Keith with him. It doesn’t matter where they’re going as long as it’s away from here. If Earth’s alliance with Altea is weak enough to rest on them, Earth has bigger things to worry about. “Can’t wait to try the dessert menu,” he says. Lotor’s focus turns toward him. “I hear the gelato is made with real coffee.”

Allura comes up behind Shiro, then, bracing her hands lightly on the back of his chair. Her loose hair tickles one of his ears. “Your meal is on the house, in recognition of your... service.”

The murmur of the restaurant goes on around them—the clink of silverware against plates, loud conversation, glassware coming to rest on a table. If Shiro weren’t sitting between them with the Princess at his back, he wouldn’t be aware of the thick tension between her and Lotor as they lock eyes over his and Keith’s heads. 

Abruptly, Allura steps back and the moment passes. ”I’ll see you both in the morning,” she says in her usual firm tone. “I hope you enjoy the panelle.”

* * *

Altean-Galran fusion cuisine turns out to be nearly inedible.

Even Keith, who’s managed to eat every version of Hunk’s “chocolate,” has trouble forcing down everything from the appetizer to the dessert. Shiro fills up on the thin slices of baguette they’re served with a side of banda nut butter. The poached zeevod eggs are the best of the bunch. Even the gelato is awful—how could it be anything with a base of oxidized, degraded espresso and drip coffee?

“I’m impressed,” Keith says after one bite. “I didn’t know it was possible to make coffee taste like this.”

“Impressed is not the word I would use,” Shiro says. 

At least the food serves as a distraction from thinking about The Restaurant’s staff. Shiro catches sight of Zethrid through the pass-through once, searing meat on a grill, but aside from Ezor, none approach their table. Their food is at least comped. Keith insists on leaving the tip—a generous amount of GAC, but it’s not like they have much opportunity to spend money here—and they escape The Restaurant before Lotor can return and ask their opinion on anything.

“Sure you don’t want to go to McDonalds?” Keith says when they’ve gotten a segment away.

Shiro shudders. “It can’t be worse.”

Keith slips his arm through Shiro’s. “I’m willing to find out, if you want.”

They’re still walking, arm-in-arm now, toward their quarters. Shiro drops his arm to take Keith’s hand. “I don’t think it’s the best venue for a first date,” he says. “Which—we didn’t talk about last night.”

“Did you think I’d want to hide it? If we were together?”

Shiro rubs his thumb against Keith’s. “I want everyone to know how I feel about you.”

“Oh,” Keith says. Like it’s some big surprise.

* * *

Keith can do other things than fight in those very, very tight pants. He can swing his leg over Shiro’s lap and pin him to the couch, balancing delicately on the narrow cushions until he picks up the ones on the back and throws them on the floor to make more room. He can grind down on Shiro while Shiro twists his hand in Keith’s hair and kisses him until they’re both breathless. Shiro forgot how good it feels to open his mouth and let someone else inside. And it’s Keith, it’s Keith who’s kissing him. Keith’s muscled thigh under Shiro’s hand.

“I like these pants,” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s lips. 

Keith lifts his head. “But you’d like them better on the floor?”

“Would you?” Shiro says.

Behind Keith, the sliver of window is an inverse halo, suspending him in a field of stars. His eyes gleam in the low light and his shirt shimmers. He’s hard, his dick hot against Shiro’s hip. “I want to touch you. In my bed.”

Shiro has to kiss Keith again, right on his sharp mouth, and his hands wander under Keith’s shirt to settle on the corded muscle of his back. How many times has he watched Keith’s workout shirts ride up, or the casual way Keith yanked them by the collar and over his head? Shiro’s fingers skate over slick patches and rough ridges of scars, run over the notches of Keith’s spine. “I’d like that,” he says. 

The ladder to Keith’s bunk is bolted to the floor, the edges of its steps and rail rounded to prevent injury. Keith leans over the edge, his braid swinging over his shoulder, and watches Shiro climb like Rapunzel from her tower. Shiro’s never been up here before. The bed is messy, unmade; an extra blanket has been kicked down toward the foot, and there are a few more pillows. Keith unfastens his fly and slides his pants over his hips while Shiro pulls himself onto the mattress. He’s not wearing anything underneath.

“I guess underwear are hard to fit under the those,” Shiro says, trying not to stare.

Keith pulls his legs demurely up to his chest. “Your turn.” He’s still wearing his shirt. 

Shiro can’t exactly do a striptease in jeans, a black t-shirt, and boxers with some Altean sports mascot printed all over them, but he does his best. He feels hot under Keith’s gaze, alive and unashamed. Keith knows what he looks like, knows all the things that he is. Keith loves him. Keith wants him. Even like this.

“Very nice,” Keith says. “Lie down.” He waits until Shiro does to add, “I don’t want you to touch me.”

Shiro’s a little disappointed, but not surprised. “Of course, that’s fine.”

Keith touches his chest first, his fingers fanning out over Shiro’s collarbones. He kisses Shiro’s throat and bites hard enough that Shiro’s back arches and pushes him up against the solid weight of Keith’s hands. “Was that okay?” Keith says, dropping a gentler kiss just below Shiro’s jaw. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “It’s good.”

After that, Keith’s hands smooth over his shoulders and dip briefly down to the sensitive skin beside Shiro’s armpits, the backs of his fingers brushing against the prosthetic. He rubs his thumb along Shiro’s sternum. The tips of his fingers skim over the rise of Shiro’s pecs. Places Shiro never touches except to wash, barely thinks about. He’s dizzy with desire. 

Keith’s brows are drawn close with concentration. The bunk is so dark that Shiro can barely see him. It doesn’t matter, anyway; he closes his eyes when Keith’s hands drop to his waist and he hisses, seeing stars. He didn’t know the grooves of his hips were so sensitive until Keith’s thumbs dragged down them, digging in, stopping short of where Shiro’s dick curves up against his belly. Keith’s hands linger there, pressure going from firm to feather-light, and Shiro’s balls tighten.

“I used to imagine this.” Keith’s voice dips low. “Before. I thought a lot about what it would be like, if you were mine.”

“And after?”

Keith drags his nails down the insides of Shiro’s thighs and doesn’t answer. Instead, he scoots further down the bed and kisses the trail he left behind, pressing his lips to the stinging path and then following it back up to—Shiro digs his nails into the sheets. For long moments, there’s only Keith’s hot breath on his dick and his grip tight on Shiro’s thighs. 

Then Keith takes Shiro into his mouth. He’s sloppy, unsteady, keeps coming up for air; wraps his fist around the base and Shiro says, “Keith, I’ll—I’m close.”

“Good,” Keith says, gravelly and satisfied.

Shiro’s breath comes in sharp pants. Keith’s mouth is hot, his tongue rough, and the noise in Shiro’s head is drowned out by his heartbeat thudding in his ears. When he comes, he feels like he’s floating, only tethered by Keith’s hands on him. “Keith,” he says, blinking into the dim light. “Will you let me—”

“Okay,” Keith says, somehow shy as he wipes Shiro’s come off his chin.

He tastes salty and sour when Shiro kisses him, and Shiro likes it. He rolls Keith onto his back and shoves his thigh between Keith’s so Keith can rut up against him. “I like you like this,” he says, then, tentatively, “My Keith.”

Keith makes a low noise and abruptly tenses beneath Shiro, then stills, and his come is hot between them, thick on Shiro’s belly. Shiro kisses him and kisses him, and the past recedes into the past. His Keith. Yes.

* * *

In the morning, the datapad by Shiro’s head buzzes.

This is Shiro’s morning off, and it’s even earlier than Keith’s usual alarm. He ignores it at first and gathers Keith closer to him. They are filthy from last night and Shiro has to pee and also he would like to sleep for approximately five years. No one is going to disturb them.

The datapad buzzes again. If Shiro concentrates, he can hear the one in his own bunk buzzing, too.

“What,” Keith says, “The fuck.” He rolls over and blearly swipes open the message. Then he goes stiff against Shiro. “Shit. We’ve got to get to the bakery. There’s some kind of emergency.”

It’s 0317 and Shiro is warm, cozy, and pleasantly unwound after the hottest, strangest sex of his life. He’s so tired of emergencies. “Do you think we can fit two people into the shower?”

“Not if one of them is you,” Keith says sadly.

They arrive at the bakery with wet hair at 0345 to find Allura already there, setting up coffee on the big drip brewer. One of her mice is clinging to her collar. “Oh, Shiro, I’m glad to see you. I’m not sure if I’m doing this right.”

“Was that the emergency?” Shiro says.

She looks at him sternly. So does the mouse. “No. Ah—Keith, you’re here, too. Good. The other should be here soon as well.”

“The others?” Keith says.

Allura turns to Shiro. “Is this supposed to smell like French fries?”

The coffee is ready by the time the others join them—Lance and Hunk, first, and then Pidge, blearily rubbing her eyes. “I don’t understand why I had to come to your staff meeting,” she says, groaning. “Do you know what time it is? This is not a time humans are supposed to be awake.”

“Coffee,” Hunk says fondly to the carafe.

They hunker down around the big table in the back room, cleared for the moment of paperwork and freshly-wrapped pound cakes. “I have summoned you all because I need your help,” Allura says. “As you know, the Galra Empire poses a great threat, not only to Altea but to all free people in the galaxy. Last night, I received word that a fleet has been sighted on the way to Balmera X-95-Vox. This farce with Lotor must come to an end.”

“Farce?” Lance squeaks.

Allura narrows her eyes. “Millennia ago, my father and four others came together as the Paladins of Voltron to defend peace in the galaxy. The time has come to summon the Lions for aid. Over the last year, you have shown me that you are the ones I must choose as their Paladins.”

“But… babka,” Hunk says.

“Do you wish to live in freedom or in the grip of the Galra Empire?” Allura says.

Pidge says, “I feel like there’s more options than that.”

Of course, Shiro has heard of Voltron. He’s heard of the legendary ships—the ones the bakery and cafe take their names from. They seemed like myths. Not something that could touch his real life. He glances at Keith, whose lips are parted, his eyes shining.

“I’m in,” Shiro says. “When do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [@regretsonmain](https://twitter.com/regretsonmain) on twitter.
> 
> Potato taste is real: https://dailycoffeenews.com/2017/12/20/potato-taste-defect-what-roasters-need-to-know/


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